


In the Name of Evil

by Noëlle McHenry (Quasi_Detective)



Series: Project Eclipse [4]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Attempted Seduction, Attempted Sexual Assault, Backstory, Biblical References, Bittersweet Ending, Blood and Gore, Broken Bones, Character of Faith, Complete, Creepy, Demonic Possession, Demons, Demons Made Them Do It, Disturbing Themes, Exorcisms, Exposition, Fallen Angels, Foreshadowing, Gen, Hell, Horror, Loss of Control, Loss of Faith, Male Friendship, Nudity, Plot Twists, Prayer, Priests, Religion, Religious Content, Religious Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2018-10-30 08:41:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10873203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quasi_Detective/pseuds/No%C3%ABlle%20McHenry
Summary: Father Kain Akkerman never wanted to be a priest.His faith in God and all things holy is and always was lacking. But for one reason or another, on a Sunday night in November of 1992, he finds himself preparing to exorcise a demon from a teenaged girl.Working with a stranger, an angelic young priest named Jasper de Witte, he assumes it will be no more than a routine exorcism. But he soon learns to never underestimate the power of the devil's angels . . .Will Fathers Akkerman and de Witte survive long enough to complete the exorcism, or will they become nothing more than the demon's mortal playthings?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a re-post of a story that I had uploaded here when it was first written, but deleted because I had put it up for sale as an eBook. If you'd like to support me by downloading the eBook, you can get it for free at [Smashwords](https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/699762), or you can support me by purchasing it for $0.99 at [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01N2ZR5SI).  
>  _Written for my beloved parents, without whom I would be nothing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 3 (December 2nd, 2017): Minor edits.  
> Edit 2 (October 6th, 2017): Grammar and formatting edits.  
> Edit (July 8th, 2017): Grammar and spelling check-up. Ran through Hemingway and made adjustments accordingly.  
> Originally posted October 25th, 2016.

It wasn’t until they heard the deep, demonic snarls from upstairs that the two priests realized what they were about to walk into. It was Sunday, November 1st, in the year of 1992. Nighttime.  
           As the thumping and roaring continued upstairs, Father Kain Akkerman stared at himself in the hallway’s mirror. Behind him was the living room, but he didn’t focus on that. Instead, he focused only on his old, weathered face and thought about his life.  
           He’d never wanted to be a priest. When he was younger, he had aspirations of being something . . . well, less religious. His faith in God—in the whole umbrella of religion itself—had always been wavering, even from a young age. There were a lot of things about the bible that he’d never understood, and that he knew he never _would_ understand. Things like God having a plan for everybody. With almost 5.5 billion people to watch over, He must’ve felt overwhelmed. There must have been times when billions fell into the cracks, assuming He was still watching at all. Which of course assumed that He had _ever_ been around, and that people of religion weren’t fooling themselves.  
           Yet even despite his lack of faith in God, there he stood in the Giese household. He wasn’t even a bishop anymore; he had been, once, but ended up demoting himself. There were others who were more deserved of the title. Others who had much stronger faith than he did.  
           That train of thought brought Father Akkerman’s eyes off of his own reflection and onto someone else’s. Behind him, in the living room, stood Father Jasper de Witte. The young priest, ordained only recently, spoke to the ever-anxious Mr. and Mrs. Giese in a low voice. His straight, short hair was a near-platinum shade of blond. From what Father Akkerman had heard, it and the priest’s blue eyes were frequent topics of discussion among the local archbishops. It seemed strange for such attention to be put not on Father de Witte as a person or a catholic priest, but on his appearance. But Father Akkerman figured he understood: Father de Witte had what he could only describe as an “angelic presence”. With a voice as smooth as silk, he was a calm and gentle man. His small frame only added to his much-admired aura. All of a sudden, the young man glanced toward the hallway, as if sensing that he had an extra pair of eyes on him. Father Akkerman averted his eyes from the mirror altogether and instead looked down at the dark wooden dresser under it.  
           They had two violet stoles. The ritual he and Father de Witte were about to perform hadn’t been in practice for decades. Because of its near-archaic nature, neither of the priests were entirely sure what they were doing. Father Akkerman had attempted a similar ritual during his brief months as a bishop. Needless to say, it had almost been unsuccessful. But this case—the case of the sixteen year old girl upstairs—was already so much worse, and he’d not even set foot upstairs yet. No, that had been Father de Witte the day prior. After returning to the church, his flushed skin no longer so, he’d only said that he believed something was terribly, terribly wrong.  
           Whether it had been Father de Witte who proposed the ritual or not, Father Akkerman had come from another city for it. He was the only priest close to the small town who’d ever had success in performing the act. But the priest had his doubts, for he was in his late sixties. He’d been a young man last time. Now he was too old. He glanced back at his reflection and asked himself what he felt was a necessary question: was he ready to die?  
           Alongside the stoles were two folded surplices and a golden pectoral cross. While he was no longer a bishop, and thus no longer wore a pectoral cross, he’d borrowed it from his church for luck. There were also two bibles and a small orb-like bottle of holy water. It was easy to tell which bible belonged to which priest. While Father de Witte’s looked brand new and well-maintained, Father Akkerman’s had seen wear and tear and was standing the test of time. Print on some pages had faded with age, but he’d never bothered to ask for a replacement. He wasn’t too concerned about losing a few pages.  
           Gentle footsteps approached him, so he again looked up at the mirror. Father de Witte was there, now standing only a step or two behind him. The old man didn’t speak as he turned himself around to look at him. His brows, darker than his hair but still rather light, were knitted in concern. As their eyes met, they heard Els’ bed thumping above them. It pounded against the floor in a steady rhythm. Mr. and Mrs. Giese held each other in the living room of the small house, with purple walls illuminated by a lamp.  
           “Father?” beckoned de Witte in a low voice.  
           Father Akkerman solemnly turned back to the mirror, though he didn’t look at it. He picked up one of the surplices and handed it to the younger priest. The two took their time in slipping on their vestments. Father Akkerman finished by draping the pectoral cross on over his purple stole.  
           The sound of Chantel Giese strangling her own sobs was the only one downstairs. Allard stroked his wife’s blond hair, holding her close. He, too, shuddered a bit. Being a priest, Father Akkerman had never had a child, nor had he ever married. But he understood their pain regardless. How hard it must’ve been to be this helpless as a parent, to have to sit back and watch your child suffer so violently and not be able to do anything about it.  
           Father de Witte’s jaw trembled, as did his hands. It was clear that each of them were reeling in their own way. Why a teenager? Was her angst so bad that it invited demons to take hold of her? There had to be a reason.  
           Father Akkerman picked up the holy water, and then the two bibles, offering Father de Witte’s to him. Their eyes met again, Akkerman’s green with de Witte’s blue. They stared at each other for a beat. Knowing that once he took that bible in his hands they would head upstairs to begin the ritual, the young man hesitated. To Akkerman it was clear that his hesitation wasn’t because he was afraid he might lose his life or his soul. No, Jasper de Witte’s fear rested in a thought that he shared: the thought that young Els may die if they failed. The thought that her life would end before it even began. That she would never graduate high school. That her father would never get to walk her down the aisle. That her mother would be picking a dress for her to be buried in before helping her pick a wedding gown.  
           When Father de Witte lowered his gaze to the wooden floor, Father Akkerman rested a hand on his shoulder. The young man looked back up at him, so he nodded to assure him that it was _probably_ going to be okay. Finally getting hold of himself, Father de Witte took both a deep breath and his bible.  
           “Are you ready?” asked Father Akkerman.  
           “I am, Father.”  
           With one final glance at Mr. and Mrs. Giese, the two headed for the second floor.  
           The further up the stairs they went, the thicker the air felt. There seemed to be a certain darkness—better described as an _evil_ —lingering around them. Els’ door was easy to spot, her name written on it in big stickers that were likely put there when she was young. The house wasn’t anything to marvel at, but Akkerman could imagine that the Giese family had lived there for at least most of Els’ life.  
           Father Akkerman placed his worn bible under his arm before extending his hand to touch the doorknob. It was ice cold. Taking an uneasy breath of his own, he glanced back at Father de Witte. The angelic priest gave a small nod of confirmation. So he pushed the door open and stepped inside, with Father de Witte only a step behind. The younger priest closed the door after himself.  
           If they’d thought the upstairs hallway was cold, they’d been dead wrong. Inside Els’ room their breaths came out in thick clouds of vapor. They both began to shiver. It was freezing in there. Both priests suddenly wished they’d worn thicker clothing.  
           Lying on the bed with her eyes closed was Els Giese. She was a small girl, about two inches shorter than Father de Witte. Torn strips of sheets tied her wrists and ankles, bruised from repeated tugs, to the bed posts. Her hair, brown like her father’s, was long and tangled. Even so, she was still beautiful, at least if one ignored how malnourished she looked. They could see black veins through what of her pasty skin was left uncovered by her pajamas. Whether their dark color was due to the blue lighting from the lamp on the floor, the priests could not be sure. Other than these things, though, she looked deceptively normal. Father Akkerman couldn’t help but wonder what she’d said to de Witte to make him suggest an exorcism.  
           “Els?” he hushed. Perhaps the ritual was unnecessary. Wishful thinking, he discovered. When Els opened her eyes, he jolted back when he saw that they were pitch black.  
           “Hello, Father,” she sung with a flirtatious lilt.  
           _Well_ , he thought, _at least she, or whatever is inside her, is awake. That means the ritual can begin._  
           With hands he forced to remain steady, he took the top off of the bottle of holy water. Then he opened his bible to the litany. Noticing him do so, Father de Witte did as well. Using his free hand, Father Akkerman traced the sign of the cross over himself and Els. Father de Witte did the same. The older priest whipped the bottle toward himself and the young man, splashing them both with a small spritz of blessed water. Then at Els, who hissed in pain when the liquid hit her skin.  
           “Lord, have mercy,” began Father Akkerman as he kneeled.  
           “Lord, have mercy,” repeated Father de Witte, also sinking to his knees.  
           “Christ, have mercy.”  
           “Christ, have mercy.”  
           “Lord—”  
           “Fuck you,” Els spat.  
           Father Akkerman ignored her. “Christ, hear us.”  
           “Fuck you!”  
           “Christ, graciously hear us,” Father de Witte continued, though he gave more attention to Els than he did to his page.  
           “God, the father in heaven.”  
           “Have mercy on us,” he said this in a distracted breath. Father Akkerman shot him a brief but stern look.  
           “Your father eats shit in Hell,” snarled Els, but neither of them reacted.  
           “God, the Son, Redeemer of the world,” Father Akkerman said.  
           “Have mercy on us,” requested Father Jasper.  
           “ _You’d better back away from this now, de Witte._ ” As she said this in a low, un-feminine voice, Els ran her tongue between her teeth.  
           “Don’t pay any attention to her,” Akkerman told the other priest in an off-handed way. “God, the Holy Spirit.”  
           “Have—”  
           “ _You faithless old bag._ ” The demon turned its snide remarks onto Father Kain. When de Witte tried to complete the response, it spoke again: “ _Both of you are going to rot in Hell, like your family members are right now._ ”  
           “Shout over her, Father.” Father Akkerman looked at his partner as he gave the advice.  
           Father de Witte, who looked ill at ease, nodded. While Els gnashed her teeth like a wild animal, the black ichor flowing through her veins began to spill out of her mouth. He did as he was told.  
           “Have mercy on us!”  
           “Holy Trinity, one God!”  
           “Have mercy on us!”  
           As the priests began the rest of the litany, involving upwards of 65 names and a repeated “Pray for us”, Els began to shriek. Her sounds were high-pitched and ear-shattering, but Father Akkerman paid her no mind and Father de Witte did his best to out-shout her.  
           “Son of God, we beg you to hear us!” The priests, shouting in unison, finally completed the long litany after a few minutes. When they did, Els stopped her infernal shrieking and glared at them.  
           “Do not keep in mind, O Lord,” Akkerman appended, “our offenses or those of our parents, nor take vengeance on our sins. Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come; thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation . . .” He glanced at Father de Witte, staring at Els, who was moaning now and tossing her head from side to side.  
           “Father.” He tried to get his attention, but to no avail. “Father Jasper!”  
           “But deliver us from evil,” murmured de Witte. With those words said, Els again began to shriek. But this time a strong force threw both priests back against the far wall. It knocked the air out of them like a heavy blow to their chests.  
           “Help me,” Els screamed. “Mom. Dad. Help!”  
           Akkerman looked up at the girl. She sat on her knees now, undone from her restraints. A sly grin drew itself across her pale, sweaty face as she turned her malicious gaze down onto Father de Witte.  
           “ _You have no idea what you’re messing with, Father,_ ” the deep voice in her throat warned. She extended her arms out at her sides. With wide eyes, she shouted, “ _You think you can exorcise me and call it a day, don’t you? No, no, no, Father. If I go, little Els Giese goes with me. There’s nothing you can do. You’ve doomed yourselves._ ”  
           “Silence, demon!” Father Akkerman splashed holy water on Els, but it did little more than make her grit her sharp teeth. “Christ commands you,” he exclaimed. “You follow God’s orders!”  
           Els, amused, tilted her head at him and smirked. “ _You don’t believe that, do you?_ ” her demon asked. The priest did not respond, so it continued, “ _Father, I’ve met God, and let me tell you this:_ He’s long given up on all of you _. What kind of God would plan to give this little girl stomach cancer, Father? You blind worshippers make me_ sick _._ ”  
           Father de Witte stood up. He revealed a cross of his own, one which he held out in Els’ direction. She snarled at him and got back onto her haunches, as if done being rational.  
           Father Akkerman tried to warn him to back down: “Father Jasper”—But Els cut him off.  
           “ _I said you would rot in Hell, Father._ ” She snickered. “ _What you need to know about me is that I am a demon of my word._ ”  
           The room began to shake, knocking de Witte off balance. As Akkerman struggled to stand, he watched as the wooden floor began to crack underneath him.  
           “Jasper!”  
           There was no time to look or listen for any response, as the floor split open. Father de Witte screamed as the dark pit that had appeared underneath him swallowed him whole. Akkerman clambered to his feet, but kept some distance from the hole as he gazed in.  
           There was no ground below. Somehow, it didn’t appear to go through the floor. Rather, it seemed to be a negative space of some sort—a portal to another dimension.  
           “Where have you taken him?” he demanded as he whipped his head around to glare at the demon.  
           “ _Oh, I don’t know,_ ” was the distorted response. “ _Why don’t you join him and find out?_ ”  
           Something shoved Father Akkerman forward, and he fell into the hole. In a mere second he went from seeing Els to seeing nothing at all, feeling nothing but a falling sensation. He cried out, but there was no echo—no reverberation because there was nothing around him. He worried that he may fall forever.  
           When Allard and Chantel rushed upstairs, they found their daughter’s room trashed. Els was on the floor, face down, but she was alone. The only sign that the priests had ever been there was the pectoral cross lying on the floor near their daughter’s outstretched left hand.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 2 (December 3rd, 2017): Minor edits.  
> Edit (October 13th, 2017): Major edits.  
> Posted October 26th, 2016.

Akkerman hadn’t known Father Jasper de Witte for long. In fact, they’d met for the first time only forty minutes before their attempt to exorcise Els Giese. All he knew about Father de Witte he’d either heard as rumors or seen for himself. Thus his surprise at dreaming of him with such vividness. But not long into the dream, he awoke. And though he recalled his dream to be realistic and near-lucid, he couldn’t remember much of it. All he could were snippets of Jasper’s hair and eyes, and white feathers. What had awoken him was the sight of the priest’s eyes turning black with damned ichor.  
           His green eyes began to drift open at the invasive smell of crisp morning air. When he was able to see, he could make out long strands of dew-coated grass made golden by the rising sun. The sight was blurry, though, leading his hand to feel around in the green. His round glasses, having fallen off, were beside him. After picking them up and placing them back onto the bridge of his nose, Akkerman sat up.  
           De Witte lay near him, still unconscious. He no longer wore his surplice, but neither was Akkerman, the latter left only with the violet stole accenting his black cassock. Confusion at the vestment’s disappearances led the old priest to look around and take in his surroundings.  
           They were lying in an empty lot between two run-down houses, a small patch of lawn overflowing with weeds. There was a house on the other side of the street that looked like it had once been set ablaze. Behind them was a decline to an open field and, past it, a small community.  
           _But that can’t be_ , Akkerman realized. _Only moments ago, de Witte and I were in the Giese household! The hole in the floor . . . Did it takes us here, somehow?_  
           The town across the field felt familiar to him. It wasn’t the town he’d been in, but for some reason there was an undeniable sense of déjà vu when he looked at it.  
           First things first, de Witte needed to wake up. So Akkerman crawled closer and began gently coaxing him. “Father Jasper,” he hushed. “Jasper, wake up.”  
           Father de Witte’s pale blue eyes floated open. It took him a moment to figure out that something was wrong, at which point he sat up.  
           “Where . . . ?” He trailed off in confusion upon spotting the community that troubled Akkerman so. Narrowing his eyes, he tilted his head and asked, “Is that what I think it is?”  
           “Do you recognize this place?” inquired Akkerman.  
           Jasper looked at him, his eyes a window into his fear. “Of course,” he answered. “We were just here! But . . . it’s backwards.”  
           “Backwards?” Finally Akkerman stood. “The demon is playing with our heads.”  
           “We need to find Els,” de Witte recommended. “Let’s finish the ritual.” He looked disheveled, from either the fall or the perplexing situation before them. Akkerman couldn’t tell which, so he assumed it to be a little bit of both.  
           “No,” responded the older priest. “Returning to the church should be our top priority right now.”  
           “What?” De Witte stood as well. “ _Why_? Els needs us!”  
           Akkerman gave him a stern look. “Haven’t you noticed, Father? We’ve been stripped of our holy items. This stole over my shoulders is all we have left. No holy water, no bibles, and no surplices. Even the pectoral cross is gone. We can’t complete the ritual without a bible at the very least!”  
           De Witte stepped closer. He ran his hands down his face, taking a shaky breath as he did so. “One of us has to go check on her and her family.”  
           Akkerman squinted his eyes, making the wrinkles around them more apparent. How could this young man be so naïve?  
           “Jasper, that’s not a good idea. It’s obvious that something isn’t right here. If we split up, the demon will only have an easier time preying upon us.” He gazed hard at de Witte, meeting his anxious stare. “You don’t want to lose your faith, do you? Your _soul_?”  
           “No, of course not. But . . .” Conflicted, de Witte looked down to the grass. “Els . . .”  
           “We’re doing this _for_ her. If we want any chance of saving her, we have to go to the church.” The old man placed his hands on the young man’s shoulders, causing him to look up again. “She _needs_ us to do this, Father.”  
           Though still uncertain, Jasper nodded his head. The two priests then decided to walk to the road, to the street that sat between the houses destroyed by fire and time. When they reached the center, however, they both froze in their tracks.  
           There was a woman ahead of them with hideous, mangled limbs. Her ankles bent inward, but she continued to shuffle forward on the outer sides of her feet. Every step forward sounded like ripping flesh being dragged open across bloody concrete. The noise made Akkerman’s skin crawl, a sensation that he hadn’t felt in years and had thus thought he was beyond feeling.  
           The girl, stark naked, was caked in blood both dried and fresh. Her waist-length messy dark brown hair was a rat’s nest, stuck to her body in places, but sticking out in tufts in others. Wrapped around her left wrist was a long, white fabric: a torn bed sheet. With her arm held out at her side, the item tied to the other end of the sheet—a lone bedpost—dragged across the asphalt. Above the sounds of birds chirping in the distance, her feet tearing open, and the bedpost, they could also hear her emitting wet, growling exhales.  
           “Oh, Lord,” breathed de Witte, consumed by horror.  
           Having never seen anything so horrible in all his years, all Akkerman could manage to ask was, “What is that?”  
           “It’s _Els_.”  
           The name, though uttered several feet away, made the girl stop in her tracks. Along with her movement and breathing, stopped too did the distant birds. All at once, with the utterance of one small word, dead silence surrounded them. Both priests stared straight ahead with wide eyes.  
           For a short moment that felt much too long, all three of them were still. Then the holy men watched in terror as Els’ head began to turn. Her neck, hidden behind her hair, snapped as it twisted around. With one last pop from her spinal column, her head was now facing them, eyes pitch black. De Witte inhaled, slow but loud. There was a final wheeze before Els belted out an inhuman roar. She then ran at them, not turning her backwards body but instead popping her knees out in the wrong direction.  
           As Akkerman gawked, face pale; de Witte screamed. When the young man turned around so did he, the two of them breaking into a wild sprint toward the field. Els snapped and wheezed as she followed close behind. That fueled them to run faster.  
           The field seemed to stretch on forever, so much longer than they’d anticipated. Though de Witte, younger and nimbler, ran faster, Akkerman was able to keep up with his long legs and tall stature. The demon chasing them screeched. With a thud, de Witte fell, but Akkerman kept running until he heard him cry out,  
           “Father Akkerman! _Kain_!”  
           Akkerman turned. Jasper lay on the ground, tackled by the bloody and mangled Els. She puked up her black ichor onto his turned head and spilled it across his porcelain cheeks. The priest screamed through sealed lips, not willing to open his mouth and risk swallowing any of the evil liquid.  
           “ _What a delightful presence,_ ” growled Els, her delicate voice harmonized by a distorted, lower-pitched snarl. “ _I’m going to enjoy devouring you from the inside out._ ”  
           She bent her elbows inward, the wrong way, to get her hands onto Jasper’s head. Mouth open now, he screamed again and grabbed at her forearms, trying in vain to push her back. Pulling her lips back to an unnatural degree and baring sharp white teeth, Els got ready to puke again.  
           With a determined shout, Father Akkerman rushed forward. He rammed the demon off of de Witte, who had begun sobbing due to the unwavering hysteria he felt.  
           “Get up!” he barked as he grabbed de Witte’s arms and tried to tug him to his feet, only for his legs to buckle. “Stand on your feet, Jasper! Come on!”  
           Els stood up and let out a long fit of hysterical laughter. She tugged at her hair with backward hands, pulling out long clumps of it with fingers that bent the wrong way.  
           Once Akkerman got de Witte standing again, the two resumed running for their lives. Feverish in his hysteria, de Witte quickly stumbled ahead, running faster than ever at the risk of tripping on his cassock.  
           It wasn’t until they reached the incline leading up to the town’s main road that they realized Els wasn’t following them anymore. In fact, she was gone. The only proof that she’d been chasing them at all was the disgusting black smear on the side of Jasper’s face. Realizing she was gone, Father de Witte collapsed to his knees in front of the incline and began to weep. Father Akkerman only stood, silent but for weary and anxious panting, staring back at the field.  
           _Where did she go? Is she still after us?_  
           “What was that?” Jasper shouted, desperate for an answer. When he didn’t get one, he started mumbling an incoherent prayer, clasping his hands so tightly that his knuckles turned white.  
           After a long pause, Akkerman finally answered him with the only answer he had: “It was the demon.”  
           “That was Els!” de Witte argued.  
           “No!” He looked down at the kneeling priest. “That was her demon! Els is not out here, Jasper!” Then as he thought, his face drooped in despair. “We left her in reality.”  
           “What?” De Witte didn’t understand, but could Akkerman blame him?  
           The older priest didn’t have time to answer before a new voice from the top of the incline cut him off. “Is everything all right?” it beckoned. “Do either you need help?” Both men, still shaken from their encounter with Els, snapped their heads up to identify the source and saw Chantel Giese looking down at them.  
           “Mrs. Giese!” Father de Witte stood up, relieved to see Els’ mother. But the woman furrowed her brow when he spoke.  
           “Um.” She did not say anything more.  
           “Do you have a phone?” inquired Akkerman, trying to seem composed and unfazed by the nagging dread that he felt.  
           Chantel pointed her thumb over her shoulder, gesturing at the quaint local diner. “You can use the one inside,” she offered. “Come with me.”  
           The priests followed as she started heading back for the diner. “Mrs. Giese, where is your husband?” de Witte asked as they walked, but she didn’t answer.  
           When they finally entered, they found the establishment devoid of people. Chantel walked over to the bar and used a key to unlock the bar flap so she could lift it. The priests watched her step behind the counter, lock the flap in place, and put the key back in her pocket. From a hook she pulled a little apron, which she then put on. De Witte and Akkerman looked at each other. Was Mrs. Giese a waitress? Neither of them was sure, but they both thought that she’d told them before the exorcism that she was a “business woman”.  
           Noticing that she was being stared at, Mrs. Giese nodded her head, gesturing past them with her chin. “The phone’s behind you, on the wall.”  
           “Thank you.” Akkerman turned and went to the phone. He planned to call the church and let them know that he and de Witte were at least _alive_ . . . if they would even answer. It was a rotary phone, but after pulling the receiver off of the hook and reaching out to put his finger onto the first number he wanted to dial, he froze.  
           All of the numbers . . . were _six_.  
           “Where’s your husband?” He heard de Witte repeat his question to Chantel.  
           “I don’t know what you’re talking about. ‘Giese’?” she responded, perplexed. “My name is Chantel _Hirsch_. I don’t know anyone with the last name ‘ _Giese_ ’.”  
           It was at that point that Akkerman turned his head to stare at her. He watched as she looked them over, appearing perturbed with arched eyebrows and a slight scowl.  
           “And how strangely you’re both dressed. What’s with the black robes?”  
           “They’re cassocks, Ms. Hirsch,” Akkerman said. “Where is your daughter?”  
           Chantel shook her head, grinning out of sheer bewilderment. “Daughter? I don’t have one. Who _are_ you two?”  
           “Where is Els?” the old man interrogated, ignoring her inquiry. He took a step closer and watched as her body language became more reserved due to intimidation.  
           “Here,” she answered.  
           “Where?” De Witte insisted, wanting her to be more specific.  
           “I mean _here_. You’re _in_ Els. Short for ‘Elstown’, right? _This_ is Elstown.”  
           Father de Witte and Father Akkerman shot each other a stunned glance. Then, almost in unison, they gazed back at Chantel.  
           “Where’s the church?” inquired Akkerman.  
           Chantel looked from one of them to the other. She was beginning to look frustrated, and they heard her tapping her foot behind the bar. “The _what_? What on earth are you talking about?” Then she crossed her arms over her chest and demanded, “Are you part of a cult?”  
           That was when they heard piercing shrieks outside. Els was back. Chantel ducked down at the sounds, covering her ears with her hands.  
           “What is that?” she demanded in a startled shout.  
           Akkerman slammed his hands down on the counter, making her flinch. “Listen to me,” he ordered. “My name is Father Kain Akkerman. This is Father Jasper de Witte. We’re priests, and we need to get to the church ASAP, or else this demon is going to kill your daughter _and_ us! We need to stop it _now_!”  
           “I don’t know what you’re taking about!” Chantel shrieked, now terrified.  
           Els began pounding on the thick brown wood of the diner's front door. Chantel cried out in fear. Akkerman braced himself against it, feeling the powerful thumps of Els’ small fists striking with force only a demon could give her.  
           “The keys!” he shouted at the waitress.  
           “Don’t hurt me!” The woman sobbed as she shakily grabbed the keys from her pocket and tossed them in Akkerman’s direction.  
           They fell short, so de Witte picked them up. Pressing himself against the quivering door as well, de Witte put the key in the lock and twisted it. When the lock clicked into place, the thumping stopped.  
           For a moment, Akkerman and de Witte relaxed. They leaned against the door with their eyes closed, both trying to catch their breath. Being so close to de Witte, Akkerman was able to smell the black liquid on his face. It smelled putrid, like a corpse, but they were too exhausted to care.  
           Father Akkerman still had his eyes closed when he heard de Witte say, “Ms. Hirsch?” He opened his eyes to see what de Witte saw—or rather, what he _didn’t_ see: Chantel wasn’t behind the counter anymore.  
           “She must have run into the kitchen,” Akkerman reasoned, noticing the door at the far end. He then looked down at Jasper and said, “You should wipe that stuff off your face before the scent sinks into your pores.”  
           “Probably too late for that,” quipped de Witte. Reaching into one of his cassock’s access slots, he pulled from his pocket a white silk handkerchief. Akkerman assumed that he shared the dumb hope that the silk would not end up stained, though it definitely would. Regardless, de Witte used it to wipe the ichor away before returning it to his pocket. The smell of death lingered, but wasn’t as pungent now. De Witte coughed wetly into his sleeve.  
           “Are you all right?” asked Akkerman.  
           “It smells terrible,” he replied through a wry, dimpled grin.  
           Akkerman allowed himself a small smirk. They were in grave danger, as was anyone around them, but a moment to relax was much needed. For a few beats there was silence, Akkerman leaning against the bar and de Witte sitting on one of the many rounded tables. The diner was dark; the lights in the main area were off, and the only other sources came from under the door to the kitchen and from outside, through the dark brown wooden blinds.  
           Father de Witte spoke first: “We should go check on Mrs. Giese—err, Ms. Hirsch. She seemed rather distressed.”  
           “You’re right. No time to dawdle.” Akkerman straightened himself dutifully. “Do you still have the keys?”  
           De Witte tossed Chantel’s keys at Akkerman, who lazily caught them. Together they walked to the bar flap. Using one of the keys, Akkerman tried to unlock the flap, but it was the wrong one, so he tried another. The second key worked, and he proceeded to lift the flap, allowing de Witte to enter first. He went past, straight to the kitchen door, but it wouldn’t budge when he pushed it. So he tried to pull it. Still the door didn’t move.  
           “It’s locked,” he realized.  
           “That’s strange. She never unlocked it,” Father Akkerman added.  
           “I guess it wasn’t locked to begin with?”  
           Though they were a bit confused, they figured that Chantel must have locked it from the inside in her fear. Rather than enter, they decided to knock first. De Witte rapped his delicate-yet-masculine against sturdy door.  
           “Ms. Hirsch? You can come out now.”  
           No response, so they reverted to Plan A.  
           This time, the first key Akkerman tried worked. He pushed open the heavy wooden door. Jasper stepped in alone, as he was the less intimidating of the two. But when he froze in the doorway, Kain followed.  
           At the far end of the kitchen was Chantel, standing on the outer sides of her feet. Her apron, or what they could see of it, was soiled by blood. There were rips in both the shirt and flesh down her back. Hunched over, head buried in her hands, she emitted a low, grungy groan.  
           “Ms. Hirsch?” Father Akkerman beckoned with concern, carefully measuring the volume of both words.  
           Chantel stood up straight. But when she did, the priests realized that something was terribly wrong. For as she did, she left in her hands something that should’ve followed her body: her head.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 2 (December 3rd, 2017): Minor edits.  
> Edit (October 20th, 2017): Major edits.  
> Originally posted on October 27th, 2016.

When Father Akkerman had heard that he would be transferred out of New York for an exorcism, he’d had a feeling that things would get messy. That said, if someone had told him that he’d find himself staring at a woman’s headless yet still moving corpse, he would’ve called them crazy. And yet there he was, a step behind Father de Witte, staring at that very sight. The sound of wheezing, like what Els had made, came from behind Chantel’s chest, where she held her head. They watched as she, on broken feet, turned herself around to face them.  
           The skin on her hands had turned black. But the blood on her apron was red, as was the blood that soaked the back of her green shirt, from the gashes in her flesh. As she was wearing a black pencil skirt, her legs were visible to them. She had varicose veins now, and her pasty white skin bled through to show that they flowed with the same black slime that pumped through Els’ body.  
           De Witte reached into the other access slot of his cassock and pulled out his cross with caution. The older priest was unsure whether he should stop him; the last time he’d introduced the cross, the situation didn’t end well.  
           There would be no saving Chantel. Her head had been hacked off, it seemed, with the meat cleaver sitting on the counter beside her. The blood that coated it was red, though there was some black mixed in. That suggested to Akkerman that she had to suffer through the entire act before the demon took full control of her. If they did manage to get it to leave her, she would die, no questions asked; its possession was the only reason she was still moving.  
           “Father,” Akkerman whispered down at de Witte, “we should go. We can’t do anything here.”  
           Chantel let her head drop to the floor. It rolled over to them and stopped at de Witte’s feet. His face drained of color as he stared down at it, hand still holding the cross that he’d pulled halfway out of his cassock. When the black eyes snapped open, de Witte became overwhelmed. He stumbled back into Akkerman. Chantel’s body held out its arms before starting to stumble toward them. The priests then rushed out of the kitchen.  
           _At least none of her limbs are backwards_ , Akkerman found himself thinking. But when he looked back, he noticed her entire right leg was twisted the wrong way.  
           Once they were out of the kitchen, Akkerman slammed the door shut, though he saw no reason to waste time locking it. De Witte leapt over the bar; Akkerman barely managed to do the same thing.  
           “Where do we go?” Jasper demanded, borderline hysterical.  
           “The church,” Akkerman instructed.  
           “She said there wasn’t one!”  
           “She never said that.”  
           Shaking his head but willing to do anything to escape, de Witte followed Akkerman to the door. They both stopped when they heard snapping sounds behind them.  
           From the order window, Chantel’s headless body crawled over into the bar. With several cracks and a loud thump, she rolled her broken cadaver through and crumpled to the floor. The priests then nodded at each other in mutual understanding that it was time to run.  
           As soon as the door was open, Father Akkerman and Father de Witte dashed out of the diner and turned right. They ran faster when they heard Els’ wheezing behind them as well, but froze in their tracks when that wheezing became a weak cry.  
           “Help!” They heard. “Please . . . Help me!”  
           When they turned, they saw Els Giese. She was limping, still naked and covered in blood, but she looked normal. With her small hands she struggled to cover her nudity as she approached. Her eyes were dark brown, skin a warm shade of peach. Judging by her limp, her left ankle appeared to be broken. Jasper took a step toward her, but Akkerman grabbed his arm to stop him. The younger priest then shot him a look of confusion and insistence, but Akkerman only shook his head.  
           “Please!” The young girl grew desperate, trying to limp quicker. “Please, I need help.”  
           As the old man began to wonder if Els had somehow managed to break free from possession, the diner’s door burst open beside her. She turned her head and screamed as Chantel’s body dashed forward, tackling her into some nearby bushes.  
           “Els!” De Witte looked back at his ally. “Father!”  
           “We have to get to the church,” Akkerman insisted. “Now!”  
           “I’m not leaving her to get mauled!” argued the blond priest. With that, he pulled himself free of Akkerman and ran for Els.  
           “Jasper, no!” But it was too late: by the time Kain had yelled, de Witte was already standing by the bushes. However, the priest’s face then twisted in horror. It wasn’t more than a few seconds before he was sprinting back.  
           “The church!” the terrified young man screamed. “ _Run for the church_!”  
           Behind him, Els and Chantel, both broken and demonic, crawled up onto the main road. They ran at the priests on all fours while belting out inhuman noises.  
           Father Akkerman needed no further coaxing to run. He turned when de Witte caught up to him. They started to hurtle themselves down the street, exhausted but having no other choice.  
           Jasper made the horrible realization first. It took Akkerman until they turned the corner that led to the church, only to find nothing. The town was backwards.  
           They’d run the wrong way.  
           The two priests slowly turned around. A few feet away from them were Els and Chantel, the former of whom was still letting out wet wheezes. None of them moved besides Chantel, who twitched. There was only one hope for the priests. Akkerman tilted his head toward de Witte.  
           “Do you still have that cross?” he asked in a low voice.  
           “Yes.”  
           “Give it to me.”  
           Being careful not to move too fast, de Witte pulled out his cross. Upon the sight of it, Els hissed. The young priest handed it to Akkerman, who made sure he had it the right way up before holding it out.  
           “God, by your name save me,” he said, beginning the psalm that followed the previous prayer they’d done in the exorcism. He only hoped he’d memorized it correctly, since he’d never cared to do so before. “And by your might defend my cause.”  
           Els hissed again, louder now, then she got up onto her haunches once more. It wasn’t Akkerman’s intent to complete the exorcism, since he was unsure if that would even be possible, but instead to force Els and Chantel to flee long enough for himself and Jasper to make it to the church.  
           “God, hear my prayer,” responded Father de Witte, revealing that he’d memorized it as well. “Hearken to the words of my mouth.”  
           “For haughty men have risen up against me, and fierce men seek my life; they set not God before their eyes.” Akkerman took a step forward, taking solace in the fact that Els and Chantel crawled back at the same pace.  
           “See, God is my helper; the Lord sustains my life.” As de Witte stepped forward, though, the demons did nothing. They only reacted to Akkerman, which worried him. It seemed like he was the one that the demon inside Els prayed most on. The young priest nervously wondered why.  
           “ _Your God abandoned you,_ ” Els snarled in response to de Witte’s addition to the psalm, or perhaps in response to his thoughts. “ _Or was it the other way around?_ ” The question made Jasper turn his blue eyes down to the pavement. He didn’t have a reply.  
           Akkerman paid no mind to the demon’s words. “Turn back the evil upon my foes; in your faithfulness destroy them.” He waited for de Witte to continue before looking at him, he whose head was still down. “Father Jasper, the response.”  
           “I did _not_ abandon God,” de Witte retorted to the demon in a low voice.  
           “ _Sure. Next you’ll say you don’t want to fuck Els._ ”  
           “I am a _priest_!” the young man, exasperated and at his wits’ end, shouted back as he raised his head in protest.  
           “Father,” Akkerman placed his hand on de Witte’s shoulder, but he didn’t react to it.  
           “ _Oh_ ,” the demon moaned in ecstasy using Els’ normal voice. “Oh, Jasper— _fuck me_ , Jasper! Fuck me _harder_! You know you want to! Oh, shove your hard cock into me!”  
           “Freely will I offer you sacrifice!” de Witte shouted the response to the psalm, trying to drown her out by slamming his hands over his ears. “I will praise your name, Lord, for its goodness—”  
           “—because from all distress you have rescued me, and my eyes look down upon my enemies!” Akkerman added, using the hand he held the crucifix in to draw the sign of the cross over Els.  
           “Glory be to the Father,” snarled de Witte through gritted teeth, staring the demon in the face with fury in his blue eyes.  
           “As it was in the beginning,” Akkerman finished. With the psalm completed, Els roared. Then she and Chantel fled, scurrying down different alleyways.  
           As he returned de Witte’s cross, Akkerman said, “We don’t have much time. Let’s hurry.”  
           “She wasn’t telling the truth,” stammered de Witte.  
           “Don’t let the demon know your vulnerabilities, Father. It will try anything it can to make you doubt yourself. Do _not_ let it know if it succeeds. God is with you,” Akkerman told him.  
           Jasper didn’t respond. Instead, he held his cross close to his chest and lowered his head. His cheeks were flushed with shame, making Akkerman wonder if he _did_ feel some sort of unholy desire for Els. Then again, he reasoned, de Witte didn’t seem the type. He was saint-like in nature. Akkerman doubted that he felt much more than pity for the possessed girl.  
           “Come, Father. We should go,” he said to the shorter man.  
           With a small nod, de Witte followed Akkerman. They started with a speed walk, but soon began to jog. There was no telling how much time they had before the demons would return.  
           When they finally got to the other end of the street, they saw the building that they recognized as the church, but something was off about it. For one, there was nothing outside to suggest that it was a holy place. It looked like nothing more than a run-down building. Still, it was their only chance.  
           Akkerman rushed to the church, but de Witte lagged behind, still exhausted. The older priest tried to push open the heavy wooden doors on his own, but they wouldn’t budge.  
           “Father Jasper, give me a hand,” he requested.  
           With hesitance, the younger man stepped forward. He placed his palms down flat on the top panel of the door. But right when the duo were about to start pushing with all their might, something smashed through the door, splintering open a huge hole. As the wood exploded out at them, de Witte recoiled and Akkerman shielded his face with his sleeve. There was a moment of silence before the old priest finally lowered his arm.  
           The top part of the door had fallen apart, likely due to the demon’s will. In front of it, the ground was now coated with slivers of wood. A benefit of the supernatural event was that Akkerman could now see into the church. To his deep relief, there seemed to be a bible opened on the stand at the far end of the aisle. He only hoped there would be holy water somewhere inside, and that the demon hadn’t willed it away.  
           The sound of something thick dripping against the ground to his left made him look down at de Witte. He’d hunched over, clutching his wrist, right palm sliced open by the explosion of wood. There were splinters sticking out of the wound, which had created a pool of blood that he tried to cup to no avail. The crimson ichor spilled over the gap between his thumb and forefinger before finally dripping against the ground.  
           Akkerman stepped closer to de Witte and touched the back of his injured hand. “That cut’s quite deep,” he observed. “We need something to stop the bleeding.”  
           “The only spare cloth I have is that soiled handkerchief,” said de Witte, teeth now gritted in pain rather than frustration.  
           That wouldn’t do. Akkerman thought for a moment. There was only one other thing he could use . . . But first he had to remove the splinters from the younger priest’s hand.  
           “Let’s go into the church. It should be safer in there.”  
           After Jasper shakily nodded his head, they walked to the door. Realizing that the doors were probably locked, Akkerman stuck his head through the hole and looked down at the handles. Sure enough, there was a lock there that he could unlock from the inside. Reaching his hand in, he twisted the lock. With a click the doors were pushed open with ease. After sitting Father de Witte down on one of the dusty pews, he then closed the doors and locked them. The hole meant that the lock wouldn’t do them much good, but he did it anyway, for the sake of mere comfort.  
           Father Akkerman then returned to de Witte, who looked up at him. He was pale from stress and anxiety. The older man recalled how vibrant and lively he’d looked not too long ago, talking to Mr. and Mrs. Giese in the living room. So much had happened in what had only been an hour at most.  
           “Try to stay still,” Akkerman instructed as he kneeled in front of him and took hold of his trembling wrist. “I need to get these splinters out of your palm.”  
           There was no reply from de Witte, so Akkerman paused for a beat before adjusting his glasses. His fingers were big and the splinters were small, as was Jasper’s palm. It would be easier to remove the splinters with tweezers, which they didn’t have. So fingernails would have to do.  
           Careful not to hurt him further, Akkerman began plucking out the chips of wood. He was able to get most of them, but the rest were either too small or too deep in. Once he was sure that he’d done the best he could, he slipped off the violet stole. De Witte watched him do so, then gasped when he wrapped the holy vestment around his hand. His reaction was half from pain, half from concern that using the stole as a bandage was in questionable taste.  
           “But”—de Witte began to protest, but was cut off.  
           “We have nothing else on hand. Stopping the bleeding is more important than keeping the stole clean,” Akkerman insisted. He tied the long cloth into a knot around de Witte’s hand and tightened it, causing the young man to tense up and grunt in pain.  
           “There.”  
           “Thank you, Father . . .” Father de Witte’s voice was quiet, his uncertainty clear.  
           With that, Akkerman stood up and headed down the aisle. As he approached the bible, he frowned. The closer he got, the worse he felt. Something wasn’t right. He tried to shake that feeling away, though, as he stepped to the pedestal that the bible lay open on. The holy book was opened to John 13, with a sentence underlined. The sentence, John 13:2, read:  
           “ _By supper time, the Devil had already put it into the heart of Judas, the son of Simon Iscariot, to betray Him._ ”  
           Akkerman wanted to pick up the bible, but he hesitated. He couldn’t shake the bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. When he heard a sudden rhythmic thumping on the other side of the church, he whipped around.  
           Jasper de Witte had stood, and was now slowly, gently, banging his head against the wall.  
           “Father Jasper?” Akkerman called, trying to mask his nervousness with a friendly degree of worry.  
           De Witte stopped hitting his forehead on the wall. Then he glanced over at Akkerman. He looked to be in a cold sweat, now with dark circles around his eyelids. With a wild look in his eyes, he flashed a dimpled grin and said, “I’m fine.”  
           “Are you sure?”  
           “Yes.”  
           Deciding to trust the priest, Father Akkerman turned his head back to the bible and he skimmed his eyes over the rest of the page. As he did, he heard de Witte pacing around the church. The old priest then reached out to pick up the bible, but he froze in place when he heard something behind him snap. It sounded like Els, and it was only an inch behind him.  
           When he whipped around, leaning back against the pedestal, his eyes met Jasper’s. The younger priest was staring up at him with a blank expression, but once their eyes met he smiled again.  
           “Father,” he greeted. When he noticed how frightened Akkerman looked, he frowned. “What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”  
           Akkerman lowered his eyes. De Witte held in one hand his cross, in the other what looked like a broken chunk of one of the church’s toppled pillars. Nervous, he gestured at the hand that held the latter.  
           “What’s that?”  
           De Witte glanced down at the debris he held and shrugged. “If the demon comes back, we’ll need something to defend ourselves with,” he answered matter-of-factly.  
           “We’re not going to hurt Els, Father,” protested Akkerman.  
           “Well, Ms. Hirsch, then. She’s already dead, after all.” Realizing he was doing little to ease Akkerman’s nerves, he added, “Look, I’m not happy about it either. But we need to save Els, don’t we? It won’t do any good if we’re killed in the process.”  
           There was tension in the air, not unlike what lingered around Els. Akkerman’s bad feeling grew worse. He looked at de Witte and extended his hand.  
           “You’re hurt,” he mumbled, “so maybe I should take the stone instead.”  
           “If you . . .” De Witte began to hand the rock over, but then looked up, behind Akkerman, and froze in terror. His words trailed off.  
           “Father Jasper?” Akkerman asked after a beat. He wished that he hadn’t spoke, though, for then the wheezing began behind him—wheezing made by Els. Slowly, he turned around.  
           Lo and behold, standing on the pedestal was Els herself. She snarled at him and screamed before swiping at him with something. When he crumpled to the floor, consciousness fading fast, the last thing he heard was Father de Witte screaming his name.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 2 (December 3rd, 2017): Minor edits.  
> Edit (October 27th, 2017): Major edits.  
> Originally posted on October 28th, 2016.

The sight of Father Akkerman crumpling to the floor filled Father de Witte with unspeakable dread. When he’d been told to accompany the older man in performing an exorcism, he never would have imagined being in such a horrible situation. He knew it was going to be stressful and confusing, but he hadn’t expected this horror, never mind being sucked into some sort of alternate reality. Now he was alone, it seemed, as Akkerman was unconscious. Alone with Els Giese, who was possessed by a demon and was staring straight at him with her black eyes.  
           “ _And then there were two,_ ” she declared as she stood upright on the pedestal, revealing all her nudity to the priest. Even if he wasn’t bound to celibacy, he wouldn’t have found her attractive in that moment. Her skin was as white as porcelain, but filthy with blood and dirt. Those tiny hands and feet of hers had turned black like Chantel’s; her veins were more visible than before, creating dark lines on her face and chest.  
           Intimidated, de Witte took a step back. In the hand that Akkerman had wrapped the violet stole around, he held his cross. He shakily extended it in front of himself.  
           “Stay back, demon,” he warned as he took another step backward. His head was swimming with fear, but he struggled to keep his composure. He needed to make sure that Els didn’t harm Akkerman any further.  
           Els giggled and jumped off the pedestal, landing with her legs spread over the older priest. She began stepping closer to Father de Witte, joints not making any snapping sounds though her hips swayed from side to side.  
           “Or else?” inquired the demon, in the teen’s normal voice.  
           “Or else I’ll continue the exorcism.” There wasn’t much else that de Witte could use to intimidate the demon. But his threat only made it laugh at him. So he asked it, “You don’t want to be exorcised, do you?”  
           “I’ve already told you, Father . . .” The voice was behind him now. He felt a finger graze the underside of his chin. In front of him Els did nothing, so he whipped around to see that she was also mere inches behind him, which made him stumble in surprise.  
           “If I go,” she continued, “so does Els. It doesn’t matter to me what happens to her. Either way I’ll get what I want. But I’d like to play for a while before I do.”  
           “And what is it that you want?” de Witte questioned, now beginning to sweat. He felt queasy. Something about staring into Els’ dark eyes made him feel like a million eyes were staring back at him—at his soul.  
           “You should know. I mean, I’m here because of you.”  
           The young priest said nothing, only staring in silent panic and confusion.  
           So she added, “You fallen angels are so easy to seduce. I can make you do whatever I want without any effort. Like this.”  
           All of a sudden, de Witte’s uninjured left hand seized up and dropped the debris it held before slapping him across the face. There was a period of time before and after the self-harming action where the priest felt even worse, but then he went back to merely feeling queasy.  
           “It’s fun to take a break from hard work and enjoy taking control of a weaker being.”  
           “Then why all of this?” demanded Jasper. “Why torture Els? Why get Father Akkerman involved? _Why_?”  
           “To take your soul, Father, I need to break you. I told you I would devour you from the inside out. I intend to keep my promise.” Her voice growing darker with each word, Els lowered her head and grinned madly. She hardly gave de Witte any time to react before she tackled him to the ground.  
           Before he could struggle to break free, he felt his muscles spasm, so he choked out a cry of pain. He couldn’t move anymore, arms extended outward at his sides and legs tensed. It was impossible to see, as his eyes kept trying to roll back into his head. All he could do was twitch and let out whimpered gagging noises.  
           “ _I can see into the dark corners of your mind_ , _Jasper_ ,” the demon, now again distorting Els’ voice, growled at him. “ _Fallen angels always have such terrible thoughts they push aside. You know Els is only sixteen, right? And as you said, you’re a_ priest _! But I can’t blame you, lest I be a hypocrite. Before I devour your soul, how about I indulge you in a taste of the pleasures you can enjoy with me inside you?_ ”  
           Though his muscles were screaming, he was able to feel everything, almost more intensely than normal. He knew he was helpless to stop anything the demon tried, but when he felt Els’ hands moving up his legs, under the cassock, his mind began protesting. “ _No_ ,” he choked. “ _Stop_.”  
           “You want me, don’t you?” Els’ normal voice, sounding a bit worried, asked. He heard her get closer, felt her hair on his face. Then she whimpered: “I want you inside me, Jasper. Let’s throw caution to the wind. I want you, you want me. Fuck me, Jasper.”  
           “ _Get away_.”  
           Disobeying him, as was the demon’s way, de Witte felt Els’ lips mashing against his. There were hands on his arms and cheeks, but the arms on his legs remained. There were too many hands. Els continued making out with him, and he could do nothing. But then his twitching right hand brushed something, filling him with sudden hope.  
           _The cross!_  
           As he struggled through the pain to reach further with his hand, Els clicked her tongue.  
           “ _Did you forget that I can read your mind?_ ” she taunted.  
           A sharp pain from inside his chest rocked him to the core. It was hard to breathe, as if there were several hands constricting his lungs and throat. The cross was his only hope, so he kept trying to reach it, but it was so difficult. He had little control over his body.  
           The demon continued kissing him. That was when he felt liquid spilling down his cheeks. It was the black ichor again, he could tell by the stench. The demon was trying to get him to open his mouth and swallow it. They both knew it would likely succeed. Confirming it, against his own will his mouth flew open. Along with the feeling of his oral cavity filling with the unholy liquid, Els’ tongue battled with his. His head was spinning.  
           Finally his hand found the cross. With shaky fingers he placed his palm over it. When he did he regained control of his arm. He then swung the exhausted limb up with all the strength he could muster and began swiping, trying to strike Els in the face. Success came in the forms of the hissing of burning flesh and the demon screeching in agony. As it did, he too screamed, gargling the fluid in the back of his throat, finally able to get air out of his aching lungs.  
           “ _You haven’t won yet, Jasper de Witte!_ ” Els snarled before she leapt away.  
           Able to move again, though his muscles still quivered, de Witte turned over and got onto his hands and knees. There was a burning sensation in his throat, so he knew that he’d swallowed at least some of the unholy ichor. His mouth tasted like ash and decay. He raised his left hand and stuck his fingers into his mouth, trying to make himself gag. But when he heaved, nothing came out. It felt like something was ripping him apart from the inside. The pain was so intense that he couldn’t even scream. Then, sharp fingers grazed across his cheek, creating light cuts in his skin like a dotted line.  
           “ _Poor, poor Jasper,_ ” the demon droned with sarcasm. “ _You can’t fight me forever. There is no God or Jesus Christ coming down from Heaven above to save you. You’re all alone, and you’re all mine._ ”  
           That was true, wasn’t it? He was doomed. However, he wondered if it would be possible to strike a deal. Perhaps he could have one thing fall in his favor. But could he trust a demon? Looking up at Els, who stared at him with a look that lacked sanity, he struggled to speak.  
           “You’re right,” he gasped. She frowned, not having expected him to agree. “There isn’t anything I can do; no one will help me. But I’m going to keep fighting you with all the holy power vested in me, unless . . .”  
           “ _Unless?_ ” she asked, intrigued.  
           “You said that you’re a demon of your word.”  
           “ _That I am._ ”  
           “Well, how about this.” Taking a few breaths and wondering if he was willing to do this, but deciding that he was, he laid down his proposal. “You can have me, without fight, on one condition.”  
           The demon raised one of Els’ brows. “ _Being?_ ”  
           “You have to let Els go.”  
           The demon cackled, finding his offer hysterical. “ _This is rich. You’re trying to bargain with a demon, as a priest. As a fallen angel, no less! Father, you’re no better than me._ ”  
           “Which means you should consider my deal.”  
           The demon stepped forward, kneeling beside de Witte and stroking his hair. A strand of it had already turned black, his angelic traits becoming tainted by the demon’s ichor.  
           “ _Father,_ ” it responded, “ _I won’t agree to your terms, because I_ want _you to fight me. That’s what makes it_ fun _. Because if you don’t, then I’ll destroy you. But if you do, you’ll never win._ ”  
           “And you’ll destroy me in the end no matter what,” Jasper offered with a shaky voice.  
           “ _Exactly!_ ” The demon patted the priest on the head.  
           “Not if I destroy you first.”  
           “ _Oh, good luck doing that._ ”  
           Having no other response, de Witte again swiped at Els with the cross, but his hand stopped short. He tried to force himself to continue the action, but instead he watched himself throw the holy object across the room, toward Akkerman, who was still out like a light. As he stared at where he tossed it, he felt—thought—nothing at all. He no longer felt stressed, nor did he feel any pain. There were shards of stained glass stuck in the broken windowpane behind the bible’s pedestal. Jasper stared at them. The sun reflected on their sharp edges, creating small but beautiful specks of colored light. He was at peace.  
           Starting out small but then building, the pain came back tenfold and seized him. He fell back with a small cry, all he could manage, and his chest pushed itself up off of the floor. It hurt so much that he wanted to die, but he couldn’t formulate the words in his head to even express that to himself. Replacing his thoughts was a loud, scraping, buzzing noise in his head. His injured hand started to burn, but he couldn’t do anything about it. Without realizing it, he started to howl in his throes. His fingers clawed at the floor and his feet kicked downward pointlessly. The only word that was able to come into his mind was “ _help_ ”.  
           When Father Akkerman finally came to, the first thing he heard was agonized screaming. It wasn’t for at least ten seconds that he realized the sounds were coming from Father de Witte. He sounded like he was being torn apart. Head spinning, the old man forced himself to look up.  
           Halfway across the aisle, de Witte lay on the floor writhing in unspeakable pain and belting out yells so loud that they pierced Akkerman’s ears.  
           “Father!” The old man clambered to his feet and stumbled over. Whatever pain the younger man was in seemed to stop abruptly when Akkerman stood by him. Jasper looked up at him, still lying on the ground. For a long moment they stared at each other in silence. It was too quiet.  
           “Jasper,” Akkerman began, “what’s the matter?”  
           “Nothing,” assured de Witte with a smile. “I’m fine. Never better, in fact.”  
           Akkerman held out his hand to help de Witte up, which the young priest accepted. Once standing, he began brushing himself off. The cuts on his face left small lines of blood down his cheeks.  
           “Your face,” Kain observed. “You’re hurt.”  
           “Oh. It’s nothing,” de Witte assured. “I’m glad you’re awake. I worried that blow to the head might’ve killed you.”  
           Akkerman decided not to mention the fact that he still felt woozy and somewhat disoriented. He felt the back of his head. When he drew his fingers back he saw a little bit of blood on them.  
           “Where’s Els?” he inquired as he quickly wiped the blood away onto his cassock.  
           “She must’ve run off.”  
           “Did you hurt her?”  
           “The cross burned her.”  
           “Where’s the cross?”  
           “You ask too many questions.”  
           Akkerman narrowed his eyes at the young man. The flippant, casual behavior with which he spoke wasn’t sitting well in his head. “You were screaming.”  
           “I had to wake you up somehow, Father.” Jasper smiled again. His grin was unsettling. Akkerman was finally beginning to notice the paleness of de Witte’s skin, and with it he noticed the strand of hair that’d turned black. De Witte was hiding something from him.  
           “What happened, Father Jasper?” Kain persisted. “Tell me the truth.”  
           “You know, that demon was right,” de Witte said. “God _has_ given up on us.”  
           “Don’t say that. God is watching over us right now, keeping us safe.”  
           “I know you don’t believe that. You’ve never believed that, not even for a second. You lack faith, which is why the exorcism failed.”  
           Akkerman refused to comment for a few seconds. He wasn’t too sure where the accusation was coming from. Was his lack of faith that obvious, or had Els’ demon told him something? Whatever the case, there was no point in denying it.  
           “I’ll admit I worry sometimes that God may not be watching over me. He may be watching over someone else, or perhaps He isn’t around at all. But I’ve dedicated my life to God, despite my concerns. I can only hope that He at least glances my way sometimes, and I feel that He does. This exorcism isn’t over yet, Jasper. We can still save Els.”  
           “Sure, Father,” de Witte responded in monotone. “We can save her so she’ll lead a life of misery. She’ll never believe in God. What’s the point?”  
           “What do you mean, ‘what’s the point’? It doesn’t matter if we convert her or not. What matters is saving her life. You should know that.”  
           De Witte started to laugh, his voice lower than before. “You worthless piece of shit,” he said with a sneer.  
           “Excuse me?”  
           With a twitch and a snap, Jasper tilted his head sharply to the right. A wide grin spread across his face. Akkerman watched his eyes as they clouded over with black; felt his own widen.  
           “Nothing matters anymore, Father,” declared the young man. “I wasn’t lying when I told you that you doomed yourself. Now you’re all alone.”  
           “Father Jasper . . .” Akkerman took a step back. As he did, he saw de Witte’s knee snap inward. With his leg bending in the wrong direction, he stepped closer.  
           “ _He can’t hear you anymore, Father._ ” The demon’s demented voice came from de Witte’s throat. “ _He put up a rather pathetic fight. It was a lot less interesting than I thought it would be. Do you know that he tried to make a bargain with me? What a priest!_ ”  
           “Father Jasper, fight it!” the old man shouted. “You’re better than this!”  
           “ _He’s a fallen angel, Father. Were you aware of that? Would you have brought him to me if you knew?_ ”  
           For once, Akkerman was certain the demon was speaking the truth. It explained too much. De Witte was always being compared to an angel, with his blond hair and blue eyes. His natural aura was so light and blissful. The idea that he was, in fact, _truly_ an angel had never occurred to anyone. It hadn’t seemed possible. Thus the tragedy that the ex-angel now stood before him corrupted by a demon.  
           “Let him go.”  
           “ _He gave up,_ ” said the demon. “ _You were too late. Now you’ve got not only Els Giese’s blood on your hands, but Jasper de Witte’s as well. How does that make you feel, Father? Like a failure?_ ”  
           “Silence!” Akkerman shouted. “I refuse to believe that Father Jasper gave up to the likes of you. He’s stronger than that!”  
           “ _I thought so, too._ ” With that solemn—even _disappointed_ —statement, the demon turned and walked to the doors.  
           “Where are you going?”  
           “ _Enjoy your last moments with a soul, Father Akkerman. Or go ahead and waste them trying to continue your pitiful exorcism. It doesn’t matter to me. I’m going to make you feel the same pain that I put Jasper through, and there’s not a damn thing you’ll be able to do about it._ ” Those words, a single, final warning, were the last the demon uttered. When Akkerman blinked, de Witte was gone.  
           “Father Jasper,” he breathed. “Jasper!” But he knew it was no use. He was all alone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit (December 3rd, 2017): Minor edits.  
> Edit (October 29th, 2017): Major edits.  
> Originally posted on October 29th, 2016.

Father Akkerman had only become a priest because of his mother. She became a nun sometime after his birth, but had always worried that he would turn out like her, in the sense that she hadn’t found any meaning in her life until she had “seen” Jesus Christ. According to her, the religious figure had given her, a single mother, the strength she needed to complete childbirth. From that moment onward she had a purpose: to dedicate her life to teaching children about God and His son. But when her own child started to harbor doubts about the holy man that had saved her life, she’d often weep. Kain hated to see his mother in such torment, but he wasn’t willing to throw his life away to a cause that he didn’t believe in.  
           When his mother died of nephritis in 1942, he was almost eighteen. The degree to which her death shocked him had always been one he’d never been able to put into words. She’d been hiding her symptoms from everyone, but had suddenly lost her will to carry on.  
           _Perhaps_ , he thought during her funeral, _she gave up because of me. Because I lack faith in God, God took her from me._  
           He’d loved his mother more than anything in the world, so much so that his friends had taken to calling him “mama’s boy” in jest. He’d had a girlfriend, but after his mother’s death he drifted further and further away from her. It wasn’t long before he became a deacon. God was cruel; he didn’t want to lose anybody else. He had to make peace with his mother.  
           Every day, at least once, Akkerman would silently pray for his mother’s soul, hoping that someday before he died he’d get some sort of heavenly sign that she forgave him. As he sat in front of the pedestal at the end of the aisle, he began to do just that. His lack of faith had taken now not only his mother, but the souls of Father de Witte and a teenaged girl. But this time it wasn’t God who was reaping. Wherever they were, God could not reach. The demon was in full control.  
           He couldn’t remember where he and de Witte had left off in the exorcism. While the rite did seem to affect the demon, he still didn’t know if it would be possible to complete the ritual here. What if the demon was telling the truth? Was it possible that Els and Jasper would die if the exorcism did work?  
           _It doesn’t matter_ , he convinced himself. If he managed to exorcise them, at least their souls could be saved. Still, if they did die in the process, Akkerman wasn’t sure how he would feel. He’d probably, as the demon suggested, feel like a complete failure. How would he be able to face Chantel and Allard, knowing that he’d failed to save their daughter? How would he be able to face any of the holy men at the church? He didn’t belong in that small town. He should’ve stayed in New York.  
           The old man began to wonder: if he hadn’t become a priest, would this still have happened? Would Els and Jasper be fine and well? He argued not; if he hadn’t been a priest, de Witte likely would’ve wound up performing the exorcism alone. Els still would’ve been possessed. The reason for this argument was the demon’s determination that Father de Witte was a fallen angel. The true target had been Jasper all along. Akkerman simply had the unfortunate luck of getting in the way.  
           According to the legends, when angels gave up their wings, they left themselves wide open to demons. They were like catnip for the unholy creatures in the depths of Hell. But fallen angels—or “Fallen”—were considered to be creatures of fiction. No real scientific research had ever been put into them. In truth, only the extremely religious believed that they existed at all. Even so, Akkerman couldn’t help but believe in them now. Father de Witte being a Fallen tied up too many loose ends for him to think it _not_ true. But the bigger concern on Akkerman’s mind was whether it was possible to save a Fallen’s soul once a demon embraced it. While it might still be possible to save Els, it might not be so simple for de Witte if he wasted anymore time. The longer he waited, the more the young man’s soul was devoured. He had to act fast.  
           Akkerman stood up and turned to the bible on the pedestal. In one fluid movement he picked it up. De Witte still had the stole, so the ritual would have to continue without it. Next he needed to find holy water and a cross. There was a crucifix on the wall, but it was much too large and the figure of Jesus nailed to it was missing its head.  
           He looked around the church’s main area, hoping that de Witte had left his cross somewhere. Relief washed over him when he found it lying on the ground near the base of the crucifix. After he picked it up, he searched the other rooms. There had to be holy water somewhere . . . or at least he _hoped_ there was. It wasn’t necessary, but it would certainly make things easier for him.  
           Lo and behold, though, there was no holy water. Akkerman sighed, defeated. He would have to resume the ritual without it, then. His only hope was that a cross and a bible would be enough for one man to exorcise a demon from two people. Something told him that it wouldn’t be, but what other choice did he have? It wasn’t just their lives at stake anymore; if he wasn’t able to exorcise the demon then _he’d_ die too. Though he felt guilty about it, he wasn’t as selfless as de Witte; he wanted to keep on living. He wasn’t about to give his soul up to a demon without a fight. With the bible under his arm, he adjusted his glasses and took a deep breath.  
           He was nervous. It was one hundred percent certain in his mind that he was about to walk into his final showdown. Someone was going to die, whether him or not. He only hoped that his premonition was wrong. Silently he prayed that he could at least save one of them. Jasper would want Els safe. So he prayed to God to help him at least be able to exorcise Els. If he was able to do that much before the demon decided to drag him into Hell with de Witte, then so be it. At least the girl would be safe.  
           There was no more time to waste. Akkerman raised his head and kissed the cross before finally leaving the church.  
           The sky was overcast now. It looked like it might storm soon.  
           _Fitting_ , thought Akkerman.  
           Slicking his gray hair back with the hand he held the cross in, Akkerman stared up at the dark clouds. He tried to find where the sun had hidden, but the gray mists were too thick for even a ray of light to beam through. A snapping noise from somewhere in front of him made him look down. Sure enough, near the main road stood Els. She glared at him with black, soulless eyes.  
           “ _So, you’ve decided to waste your time, then,_ ” observed the demon.  
           “You could say that.” Akkerman didn’t argue. It likely _would_ be a waste of time, but it was either mope and die or _fight_ and die. What Kain lacked in faith, he made up for in courage. This demon had tormented him. God be damned if he wasn’t going to at least _try_ to get vengeance.  
           Els snapped her neck from side to side. “ _What a shame,_ ” she groaned. “ _I was going to give you a painless death._ ”  
           “How thoughtful.” Akkerman paid little attention to Els, instead opening the bible. He had to figure out where he and de Witte had left off. “Where’s Father Jasper?” he asked to keep the demon talking, trying to buy himself some time. “Shouldn’t you be controlling him instead of Els?”  
           “ _He’ll be joining us shortly._ ”  
           “Funny, I would’ve expected you to brag.”  
           “ _I decided to use Els because I know she reminds you of your mother, Father._ ”  
           Akkerman paused for a moment, staring at the print on the page but not reading it. The demon was right, but he shook it off and continued flipping through the holy book. He wasn’t about to let it be known that he felt protective of Els because she vaguely resembled his mother.  
           “ _It seemed like the better option,_ ” the demon admitted. “ _But don’t you worry. I’ll bring Jasper around as soon as I finish with him._ ”  
           The old man decided not to question what that meant. What mattered was figuring out where to continue from. Once he found it, he looked up at the demon, who made Els tilt her head.  
           “I’m going to continue the exorcism now,” he warned.  
           “ _You won’t succeed._ ”  
           “Then you shouldn’t mind if I try.” Akkerman’s casually-spoken words made the demon snarl. The angry reaction gave the priest some semblance of hope; it suggested that the exorcism could still harm it. Clearing his throat, Akkerman began.  
           “Save your servants, who trust in you, my God.”  
           “ _Why do you keep trying?_ ” Els questioned. “ _It hasn’t worked before. What do you get out of this?_ ”  
           “Let them find in you, Lord, a fortified tower in the face of the enemy. Let the enemy have no power over them, and the son of iniquity be powerless to harm them.”  
           “ _I’ve got your mother with me, Father._ ”  
           “Lord, send them aid from your holy place, and watch over them from Sion.”  
           “Kain.”  
           “Lord, heed my prayer, and let my cry be heard by you.”  
           “ _Kain_.”  
           It wasn’t until he heard his mother say his name a second time that Akkerman stopped. He knew the demon was toying with him, but he wanted to see her again, so it was with hesitance that he looked up. His mother, dressed in her habit with a rosary in her hands, stood where Els had. Her black veil was on her head, covering her hair, and she looked so sad.  
           “My dearest Kain,” she cried, “why do you torture me so? All these years you’ve been lying to yourself—to _me_. You pretend to love God . . . but you don’t, do you?”  
           “Mother,” he responded, managing to keep his cool. “I’m sorry. I swear I will make peace with you one day.”  
           She shook her head. “I’ll never forgive you, Kain. _God_ will never forgive you.”  
           “I’ll still try.” Done playing along, Akkerman looked back down at the bible. “The Lord be with you,” he continued. “May He also be with you. Let me pray.”  
           “Kain, stop pretending!” his mother shrilled. “People who lie to their mothers rot in the depths of Hell!”  
           “God, whose nature is ever merciful and forgiving, accept my prayer that these servants of yours, bound by the fetters of sin, may be pardoned by your loving kindness.”  
           “Father!”  
           Akkerman raised his eyes again. Standing beside his mother was Father de Witte, panting. The old priest said nothing, unsure if it was another trick. The demon, still masquerading as his mother, turned her eyes onto de Witte in a similar fashion. As the young priest stumbled closer to Akkerman, he looked at the old man with a desperate, pale face.  
           “Father, keep going!” he insisted. “Don’t let the demon distract”—a spasm of pain cut him off. His eyes rolled back into his head before clouding over with black. The demon spoke to him through his own mouth these words: “ _I’m relieved that you’re not done yet, Jasper. If you hadn’t spoken up, I wouldn’t have been able to hurt you anymore._ ”  
           While he wanted to scream at the demon to stop tormenting the fallen angel, Akkerman couldn’t be sure about the legitimacy of what he was seeing. It was possible that de Witte breaking free was only part of an act meant to distract him. Either way, the only rational choice Akkerman had that would get him anywhere was to _keep praying_.  
           “Holy Lord,” he began, “almighty Father, everlasting God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who once and for all consigned that fallen and apostate tyrant to the flames of Hell, who sent your only begotten Son into the world to crush that roaring lion. Hasten to our call for help and snatch from ruination and from the clutches of this noonday devil these human beings made in your image and likeness.”  
           “ _I am no ‘noonday devil’, Father,_ ” the demon hissed. “ _I have a purpose._ ”  
           “Strike terror, Lord, into the beast now laying waste to your vineyard. Fill your servants with courage to fight manfully against this reprobate dragon, lest he despise those who put their trust in you, and say with Pharaoh of old: ‘I know not God, nor will I set Israel free.’ Let your mighty hand cast him out of your servants, Els Giese and Jasper de Witte, so he may no longer hold captive these persons whom it so pleased you to make in _your_ image, and to redeem through your Son, who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, God, forever and ever.”  
           “ _Amen_ ,” Father de Witte choked out before emitting a loud, demented scream. Akkerman knew then that the previous scene was no act; de Witte was still present. There was little time, then. Determined, Akkerman drew the sign of the cross over himself before extending de Witte’s cross forward and stepping closer to the demon and de Witte.  
           “I command you, unclean spirit, _whoever_ you are, along with all of your minions attacking these servants of God, by the mysteries of the incarnation, passion, resurrection, and ascension of our Lord Jesus Christ, by the descent of the Holy Spirit, by the coming of our Lord for judgment, that you tell me by some sign your name and the day and hour of your departure.”  
           “ _Fuck you, heathen!_ ”  
           “I _command_ you, moreover, to obey me _to the letter_ , I who am a minister of God despite my unworthiness. Nor shall you be emboldened to harm in any way these creatures of God, or the bystanders, or any of their possessions.”  
           His mother turned back into Els, back in her pajamas, before hissing at him. Jasper was hunched over, moaning in agony. Still holding the bible and cross, Akkerman placed his full hands on their foreheads, his left on Els’ and his right on Father de Witte’s.  
           “They shall lay their hands upon the sick and all will be well with them. May Jesus, son of Mary, Lord and Savior of the world, through the merits and intercession of His holy apostles Peter and Paul and all his Saints, show you favor and mercy.”  
           Els began to back away, somehow both snarling and screaming. Her primal noises did little to distract Akkerman, who looked down at de Witte. The possessed priest looked up at him with his teeth bared. He didn’t speak.  
           “Amen,” Akkerman said.  
           De Witte roared and lunged at him. Holding the cross out and pressing it against the young man’s forehead earned a yell from the demon, who pulled Jasper back. It seemed weak. Akkerman felt that he finally had the upper hand. Could he bring the exorcism to a close?  
           The rest of de Witte’s blond hair gradually shifted to black, starting at the roots. Akkerman had to end it now, or else he was going to be in serious trouble.  
           “God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, I appeal to your holy name, humbly begging your kindness, that you graciously grant me help against this and every unclean spirit now tormenting these creatures of yours, through Christ our Lord.”  
           De Witte and Els both responded with something, but it certainly wasn’t “ _Amen_ ”. Whatever it was, Akkerman could not make it out—it sounded like it was something in reverse—so he ignored it. Laying his eyes on both of them, the old man began the final part of the exorcism.  
           “Therefore, I adjure you every unclean spirit, every specter from Hell, every satanic power, in the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, who was led into the desert after His baptism by John to vanquish you in your citadel, to cease your assaults against the creatures whom He has formed from the slime of the Earth for His own honor and glory; to quail before wretched man, seeing in him the image of almighty God rather than his state of human frailty.”  
           Els pulled at her own hair as Jasper cried out. With darkened hands, the young priest tried to reach around himself, tugging at the fabric of his cassock as if he wanted to tear it away.  
           “It burns,” he moaned. “My back burns. O _Lord_ , it hurts.” Then the demon spoke again: “ _Silence, you pathetic waste of oxygen. You know nothing of pain yet._ ”  
           Akkerman resumed, repeatedly drawing the sign of the cross over them. “Yield then to God, who by His servant, Moses, cast you and your malice, in the person of Pharaoh and his army, into the depths of the sea! Yield to God, who by the singing of holy canticles on the part of David, His faithful servant, _banished_ you from the heart of King Saul!  
           “Yield to God, who condemned you in the person of Judas Iscariot, the traitor! For He now flails you with His divine scourges, He in whose sight you and your legions once cried out: ‘What have we to do with you, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? Have you come to torture us before the time?’ Now He is driving you back into the everlasting fire, He who at the end of time will say to the wicked: ‘Depart from me, you accursed, into the everlasting fire which has been prepared for the devil and his angels!’”  
           “ _Indeed, his_ angels _! Fitting, for I now possess one of my own!_ ”  
           Akkerman watched in awe as two angel wings, coated with black feathers, burst outward from de Witte’s back, ripping through his cassock. With black hair and two large, equally dark wings, Father de Witte was quite the sight to behold. The demonic angel then extended a sharp finger that dripped with black ichor, pointing it at Father Akkerman.  
           “ _You’ll never escape me,_ ” he declared. “ _There is no undoing the damage I have done to this angel. I will get you in the end. You will follow me into the depths of Hell!_ ”  
           Sensing that the demon was pulling its trump card in a desperate attempt to intimidate him, Akkerman only continued the exorcism.  
           “ _Depart_ , then, impious one. Depart, accursed one—depart with all of your deceits, for God has willed those two should be His temple! Why do you still linger here? Give honor to God the Father Almighty, before whom every knee must bow! Give place to the Lord Jesus Christ, who shed His most precious blood for man! Give place to the Holy Spirit, who by His blessed apostle Peter openly struck you down in the person of Simon Magus—who cursed your lies in Annas and Saphira—who smote you in King Herod because he had not given honor to God—who by his apostle Paul afflicted you with the night of blindness in the magician Elyma, and by the mouth of the same apostle bade you to go out of Pythonissa, the soothsayer!”  
           “ _I will stab you to death with the cross you hold!_ ” the demon bellowed in rage, using the throat of Jasper de Witte to make the threat. “ _Then I’ll bathe in the blood of Els Giese before slitting the throat of this forsaken angel! All three of you will_ join _me in the everlasting fires of_ Hell _!_ ”  
           “Begone, _now_!” Akkerman hollered back. “Be _gone_ , seducer! Your place is in solitude. Your abode is in the nest of the serpents; _get down and crawl with them_! This matter brooks no delay, for, see, the Lord—the _ruler_ —comes quickly, kindling fire before him, and it will run on ahead of Him and encompass His enemies in flames! You might delude man, but God you cannot mock! It is _He_ who casts you out, _He_ from whose sight _nothing_ is hidden! It is _He_ who _repels_ you, He to whose might _all things_ are subject! It is He who _expels_ you, He who has prepared everlasting hellfire for you _and_ your angels, from whose mouth shall come a sharp sword, who is coming to judge the living, the dead, and the _world_ by _fire_!”  
           The demonic angel then leapt forward. He grabbed Akkerman by the collar, floating above him and tugging him up off of the ground. After getting straight in his face, it was with a jet black tongue and sharp teeth that the demon, strangely enough, gave the response:  
           “ _Amen._ ”  
           In an instant, everything went black. Akkerman was alone again in the darkness of the pit he’d been thrust into. He looked down into the abyss to find Jasper de Witte, unconscious. The young man was again wearing his surplice; his hair returned to its original platinum color.  
           Discovering he could swim through the darkness, the older man started to breaststroke deeper in. He wrapped his arm around Father de Witte’s waist, pulling him close before looking up. Above, he could see the ceiling of Els’ room, with a beam of light spilling in. The door was open, it seemed, as the lights had to be coming from the upstairs hallway. What had happened in reality while he and de Witte were in Hell?  
           “Father Jasper,” he said reassuringly to the unconscious priest. “Don’t worry. We’re getting out of here now.”  
           But as he started to swim up, he realized that something was holding them back. He looked down at de Witte. That was how he noticed it: the long black tendril wrapped around de Witte’s ankle. It tethered him to something in the depths of the abyss. The demon wasn’t letting go so easily.  
           Determined, though, Akkerman looked again at de Witte’s midsection. From one of the priest’s pockets, he pulled the cross. Holding it up with one hand, he kissed it before reaching down. Then he roughly pressed it against the dark tendril. That was when the screams of a thousand dead souls filled the space around him. He feared he may go deaf, but refused to stop until the tendril pulled back and released Father de Witte’s leg.  
           Fueled by a final burst of adrenaline, Akkerman headed for the light, pulling de Witte with him. He only hoped that he would find the exorcism completed in reality as well, and that he could even get back.  
           As he approached the portal, his vision grew brighter. He could finally rest on the other side. Crawling out of the pit like he would a swimming pool, Akkerman proceeded to drag de Witte up into Els’ room. Then he collapsed to the floor, lying on his back and panting. Was it finally over?  
           When he looked over at Els’ bed, he froze. Whatever foolish hope he’d felt melted away all at once. The bed was empty.  
           Els was gone.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 2 (December 3rd, 2017): Minor edits.  
> Edit (October 30th, 2017): Major edits.  
> Originally posted on October 30th, 2016.

A mixture of fear and grief overwhelmed Father Akkerman. Had Els been in the abyss with them? He worried that may’ve been the case and that he’d forgotten her, so he looked to the dark pit. But it was gone. The floor was in almost pristine condition, making Akkerman pause.  
           That was when he heard footsteps behind him. Turning around, he looked out into the upstairs hallway. Allard Giese was coming up the stairs. When he saw the two priests he let out a sigh of relief.  
           “Mr. Giese, what happened?” Akkerman questioned.  
           “I could ask _you_ that,” Els’ father responded. “You two disappeared. We heard screaming, but only Els was here.”  
           “Where is Els now?”  
           “Downstairs, with Chantel. She’s been saved, Father!” The man seemed overcome with emotion as he smiled. “We’ve been waiting for you and Father de Witte to return. Where did you go?”  
           Akkerman glanced down at de Witte, who was still unconscious. In an offhanded way he replied, “I’m glad that Els is all right,” avoiding the question. Allard wasn’t a religious man, but even if he was, Akkerman wouldn’t expect him nor anyone to believe the story he had to tell. “Is there anywhere I can lay Father de Witte?”  
           As if on cue, the two older men heard the priest groan. De Witte’s eyes, their normal blue color, drifted open.  
           “Father?” de Witte grumbled, half conscious but looking up at the older priest.  
           “I’m here,” Akkerman assured him.  
           “Where’s Els?”  
           “She’s downstairs.”  
           “Is she okay?”  
           “The exorcism was successful.”  
           De Witte laid his head back in relief. Finally it was over, and it appeared the fallen angel had come out weak but otherwise unharmed. Akkerman stood before offering his hand to help Jasper, which he took, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet.  
           “Come downstairs when you’re ready,” Allard offered before turning his back to them and heading for the stairs.  
           Akkerman then noticed that something was still missing, so he spoke up. “Mr. Giese?”  
           The brown-haired man turned to look at them again, standing in front of the staircase. His light blue dress shirt was stained with sweat and tears, but was clean other than that. “Yes?”  
           “Do you know where the pectoral cross is? I don’t seem to have it anymore.”  
           “The golden cross on the chain?” Allard questioned, then answered: “Els was holding it when we found her in here. She has it downstairs with her.”  
           “Is she awake?” De Witte finally spoke at his normal volume.  
           “Yes.” The father again smiled. “Thank you both so much. If it wasn’t for you . . .”  
           Akkerman shook his head. “You’re welcome. I’m grateful that she’s free, as well.”  
           Allard nodded, paused, and then walked downstairs, leaving the two priests alone in Els’ room. It wasn’t cold upstairs anymore; the air felt cleared of evil. The old priest looked at the young one with a soft smile. They could finally rest; the demon that’d been torturing them for what felt like hours was vanquished at last. On the plus side, it seemed that de Witte was completely normal despite his weakness, which was to be expected. De Witte didn’t smile back, but his eyes expressed his ease of mind.  
           “Do you remember much of what happened?” Kain inquired.  
           “Too well,” Father de Witte answered. The response made Akkerman frown and sigh.  
           “I’m sorry I couldn’t prevent what the demon did to you. It must’ve been horrible.”  
           “That’s an understatement.”  
           Akkerman wasn’t sure what else to say, so instead he turned his head to look at Els’ bed. One of the bedposts had snapped off at some point. The bed sheets were torn up. There were claw marks all along the walls. If the Giese family moved out, he wondered what the real estate agent would think when they saw the room, especially with its door knocked to the floor and damn near smashed in half. He realized he was still holding de Witte’s cross, so he decided to say one final prayer.  
           “Almighty God, we beg you to keep the evil spirit from further molesting these servants of yours, and to keep him far away, never to return. At your command, O Lord, may the goodness and peace of our Lord Jesus Christ, our Redeemer, take possession of this man and woman. May we no longer fear any evil since the Lord is with us; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, God, forever and ever.”  
           “Amen,” de Witte mumbled.  
           With the final prayer done, officially concluding the exorcism, Akkerman turned back to de Witte and extended the cross back to him. The young man snatched it and buried it in the access slot of his cassock. Assuming he was in a bad mood due to the pain he’d gone through, Akkerman didn’t react to his snappy disposition.  
           “Let’s go downstairs and check on Els,” he suggested. De Witte only nodded, so they headed down, Akkerman leading. When they got to the warm first floor, they stepped into the living room.  
           Els was on the couch, snuggled against her mother. Her hair was a mess and she looked exhausted, but other than that she looked normal. She gazed up at the two priests with a concerned look, so Akkerman gave a warm smile to sooth her.  
           “Thank you, Father,” Chantel said as she stroked Els’ hair. She had happy tears in her eyes. “Thank you so much. I can never repay you.”  
           Akkerman nodded his head at her. He noticed that Els was in fact holding onto the pectoral cross, but he said nothing of it. If needed, he would return for it, though he felt he could explain to his superiors why he didn’t bring it back.  
           “We’ve said the last prayer,” he announced. “Els should be safe now. She’s out of the demon’s reach.”  
           Those words relieved Els, who cuddled closer to her mother and closed her eyes. There was no question that she needed a lot of rest to regain her strength.  
           For the first time, Akkerman felt a sense of pride about his life choice to become a priest. He’d saved two lives from the hands of the devil, after all. But he admitted he wouldn’t have been able to do it alone. Father de Witte deserved most of the credit, as he’d fought the demon head-on and managed to keep his soul.  
           When he glanced at Jasper, Kain was relieved to recognize him as being the same gentle man that he’d met earlier that night. His expression was a tad grim, though Akkerman understood the sentiment. He’d probably looked the same after _his_ first exorcism, and _he_ hadn’t been possessed during it.  
           The old man let out a contented sigh. The night was almost over. Els was safe. He’d done what he arrived to do. Silently, he hoped that his mother was watching him from Heaven, and that he’d finally made her proud.  
           “How long were we gone?” de Witte asked the family.  
           “About forty minutes,” was the reply, from Allard.  
           _Funny_ , Akkerman thought. _It felt so much longer than that._  
           There was a beat of silence before Akkerman said, “We should prepare to leave.”  
           “So soon?” Chantel asked. “Please, stay a while.”  
           The old man shook his head. “We wouldn’t want to impose. You all seem so tired.”  
           There was no argument, so Akkerman returned upstairs to pick up the holy items he’d left. On the floor of Els’ room he found the bottle of holy water. The blessed liquid had mostly spilled out, but he didn’t care. He only wanted to drop the holy items off at the church and return home to get some sleep. Both the cap of the bottle and his bible were under the bed. He couldn’t find de Witte’s bible, though, so he assumed that the young man already had it.  
           After picking up everything he could find and realizing at some point that he was again wearing the violet stole and his surplice, Akkerman returned to the first floor. De Witte was looking at himself in the mirror that he’d been staring at before the exorcism. Els was resting, but still awake.  
           “Father Jasper,” Akkerman inquired, “do you have your bible?”  
           “Is it not upstairs?” the blond priest asked.  
           “I’m afraid not.”  
           De Witte shrugged. “Whatever. I’ll get a new one from the church tomorrow.”  
           With that settled, Akkerman turned to look at the Giese family one last time. “Goodnight.”  
           “Goodnight, Father,” Chantel said. “Thank you for everything.”  
           Akkerman opened the front door, but stopped when he heard Els’ voice.  
           “Father, wait,” she called. He and de Witte looked back to see her walking toward them, wearing one of her mother’s robes over her shoulders. When she was close enough, she held the pectoral cross out to them. “I think this is yours.”  
           “You should keep it,” Akkerman suggested. “It will keep you safe.”  
           Els smiled with tired brown eyes. “Thank you,” she replied, holding the cross close to her chest.  
           “Be safe, Els.”  
           With that, the two priests left the Giese house. Els stood by the doorway, watching them go with a small smile.  
           It was snowing lightly. Akkerman took a deep breath of fresh air. The street lights created beams of gold, making the fallen snowflakes under them sparkle.  
           “I’m going to take the shortcut,” de Witte told him. “I want to get to the church and call it a night.”  
           Though there was a main road that they could take to get to the church, the winds were cold and harsh. The shortcut cut through some alleys, saving five minutes and also giving protection from the brisk air.  
           “I’ll go with you,” Akkerman said.  
           The duo began walking down an alleyway, strolling beside each other. There was a long beat where neither of them knew what to say. It was becoming readily apparent that neither priest truly knew the other. They’d only met less than an hour and a half prior, though it felt so much longer.  
           “Where are you from?” de Witte asked to break the silence as they walked.  
           “New York,” Akkerman answered.  
           “Really? How is it there?”  
           “Bitterly cold.”  
           “Not much different, then?”  
           The priests shared a laugh. Humor felt almost foreign to Akkerman after the terror the demon had put him through, but he was happy regardless. He hadn’t realized how much he enjoyed laughing until then. The trauma had given him a new lease on life. He felt as though God was watching him for once. Finally he had faith.  
           That was when he was shoved violently against a wall by the younger priest. One second he was fine. The next, he felt a sharp pain in his lower abdomen. At first he didn’t do anything. He had no reaction, the shift in mood so abrupt that he wasn’t even sure what had happened. Choking on a fluid that he felt rising in the back of his throat, he lowered his gaze.  
           De Witte was making incoherent, stammered noises of shock. He didn’t seem to understand what had happened either, though he was the one staring at whatever his hands had done.  
           When Akkerman saw that the base of de Witte’s cross had gone through his cassock, he knew what happened but couldn’t believe his eyes. The base was blunt, and yet somehow de Witte had managed to stab him in the stomach with it.  
           “F—Father, I . . .” De Witte’s voice was low and shaky from shock. “I don’t know why I . . . I just . . .”  
           Before Akkerman could speak even a word, de Witte ripped the cross out of his abdomen. To his surprise, the base was no longer blunt; instead it was sharp, pointed into some sort of stake. He had no idea when that happened.  
           De Witte stabbed Akkerman again, and again, and again, over and over. At first the old man could tell that the fallen angel was trying to stop, but once it became clear that he had no control, his resistance ended. The stabs became rougher and deeper. De Witte had a hand on Akkerman’s left shoulder, the man’s chin buried in his blond hair. Crimson ichor splattered against the pavement below Akkerman as the younger priest kept on stabbing. Finally Akkerman’s legs gave way and he slipped to the ground, sitting in a pool of his own blood. With ragged breaths and blurry eyes, he looked up.  
           De Witte’s left hand, in which he held the bloody cross, was now dyed red, the front of his white surplice decorated with lines and large patches of scarlet. He stared down at Akkerman with a blank expression and eyes clouded over with black.  
           “ _I told you,_ ” the old man heard de Witte’s voice, distorted, tell him. “ _I am a demon of my word._ ”  
           Akkerman only stared. His eyes began to burn from fatigue and the welling of tears. He began to weep, half conscious, lowering his head. His own blood was pooling around him. The red syrup that flowed out of his several stab wounds leaked out between his fingers.  
           “Don’t hurt Els,” he begged through his uneven sobs. “ _Please_ , don’t hurt _Els_.”  
           “ _Goodbye, Father Akkerman._ ”  
           Watching de Witte walk away in the direction they’d come from but being powerless to stop him, Akkerman continued to snivel. He tasted copper, but didn’t want to cough, because that would cause him too much pain. Leaning his head back against the wall, he felt his consciousness slipping. His eyelids were growing heavy.  
           He found himself thinking about his life, wondering where his former girlfriend was. Was she all right? He hoped that she’d found a man to love—that she’d mothered a happy family; that wherever she was, _she_ was happy. He thought about all of the people he used to know when he was younger. How had their lives turned out? Did any of them still think of him? Doubting it, he let out a weak chuckle.  
           He’d never known his father. For most of his life he’d hated the man for not being around. At some point, though, he’d simply stopped caring. But he’d never forgiven. In that moment, as he lay dying, Akkerman tried to picture what his father might’ve looked like. Once he had a clear mental image, he pulled his lips apart to speak and managed to whisper, “All is forgiven, father.”  
           That was when he felt a soft, warm hand on his cheek. With his weak green eyes, he looked ahead. His mother was kneeling before him, glowing. She had a loving expression as she began to wipe the tears from the right side of his face with her thumb.  
           “Mother . . .”  
           “I’m here, darling,” she told him. “It’s all right now.”  
           “Mother, I . . . I’m sorry. I couldn’t save them.”  
           “You tried, my son. I’m so _proud_ of you. So very, _very_ proud.”  
           Kain closed his eyes. His lips trembled from emotion. “Will I be seeing you, mother?”  
           “Yes, my love. We’ll never be apart again.”  
           All of the old man’s pain slowly left him. It was over. He’d given his all, and although he’d failed, he’d earned his mother’s love. She was proud of him. He could be happy with that much.  
           “I love you, Kain.” These words from his mother were the last Akkerman heard before everything faded away. When his body was found a few hours later, there was a contented smile on his weathered face.  
           Kain Akkerman was finally at peace.


End file.
